


facility management

by gdgdbaby



Category: Crooked Media RPF
Genre: M/M, Office Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-12
Updated: 2018-06-12
Packaged: 2019-05-21 06:03:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14909733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gdgdbaby/pseuds/gdgdbaby
Summary: It still feels weird how big the offices are; the newness of the space hasn't worn off yet. Is there a word for the opposite of claustrophobia? That's how it feels here now some days, watching the dogs run around with balls in their mouths, having to actually cross a considerable distance to go talk to Jon about some initiative they're working on. They'd all gotten so used to living out of each other's pockets in the old place that having so much room and more than one bathroom is deeply strange.





	facility management

**Author's Note:**

> with thanks to electr1c_compass for her faithful loli reportage, alotofthingsdifferent for encouraging this nonsense, and winterfold for looking it over, after. ♥

Elijah's outside in the parking lot behind the Improv, leaning against the passenger's side of Travis's Jeep, when the back door bangs open and Travis finally winds his way out after the late show.

"Got all the cuts?" Elijah asks.

"Yeah." Travis clicks his keys, the locks popping open with the beep, and Elijah climbs into the car. "He kept trying to leave to get back home to Ronan, and I kept saying, okay, but we still have to release an episode tomorrow, so we can go over everything now or at four in the morning." He throws a grin over his shoulder as he backs out of his spot. "It was pretty effective."

Elijah chuckles. "You're learning. That's good."

His Friday nights have been reserved for _Lovett or Leave It_ for the past year, so he's gotten used to having to head back to the studio to finish editing in the wee hours of the morning. Since Travis was hired, they've been carpooling together on and off. Driving to the new office instead of the old one still trips them up sometimes, but it's a work in progress.

Ramona, the night guard at the security desk—and they have a fancy office building with its own security desk now, what a world—nods when they stroll in and waves them toward the elevators. Their floor is completely dark, even Priyanka gone home for the night; Elijah pulls out the keys to the front doors and flicks a couple lights on once they're in.

"You want water?" he asks, jerking his head toward the kitchen. He had a couple drinks during the first show, and another during the late one, so he should probably hydrate.

"Nah, I'm fine," Travis says. "I'll power up Pro Tools on your laptop."

When Elijah gets back with his glass of water, Travis is lounging in his swivel chair at Elijah's desk, the evening's first show pulled on screen already. Elijah settles in his own seat, tapping his fingers against his mouse. "So. Intro?"

"Yup," Travis says, flipping through his notes. "The new Chris Evans bit has to go."

"Aw," Elijah says. "I liked that one."

"Kill your darlings," Travis says, flourishing his hand, and Elijah chuckles as he dutifully tabs over to start clipping.

They've gotten into a good groove editing white noise and weird clicking out of the first half hour by the time they get to the raunchy conversation in between segments about fellatio. Travis snorts, listening to Bryan Safi go on a tear. "We should have him back on again," he says, noting the time down.

"From your lips to Corinne's ears," Elijah says. He shakes his head as Lovett returns in kind, the audience roaring with laughter. It's past midnight, and Elijah's still kind of tipsy, and something about the way Bryan says _suck my dick_ the fourth time makes a giggle bubble up in his chest, bursting out as he tries to cover his mouth with his palm.

"It's not that funny," Travis says, shaking his head, but he's laughing, too, and then Lovett's introducing _OK STOP_ , and they've lost the timestamp.

"Fuck," Elijah wheezes, clicking back five seconds. "Okay, okay, pay attention. Come on, we gotta get through this."

He makes the mistake of catching Travis's eye the second time, and of course they lose it again, the kind of giddy, uncontrollable laughter after a longass slog of a week and technically being at work for the last fifteen hours. It really isn't even that funny, but Elijah's knuckling tears from the corners of his eyes trying to catch his breath, anyway. Travis slides a hand over to clamp against his shoulder. "Get it together, man," he says.

He's still giggling, though, and his face is very close, and his mouth is very pink, and Bryan goddamn Safi keeps talking about dicks and sucking them. Jesus.

Elijah tries to stop laughing and starts hiccuping instead, because that's just his life. He reaches out to grab at his glass of water, except he overextends and almost knocks it over onto the very expensive laptop that they're working on.

The water does not actually get all over the very expensive laptop, which is good, but does get all over Elijah's pants and shirt, which is not so good. "Fuck," he says, pushing away from his desk. At least the glass didn't hit the floor and shatter into a billion pieces, because he had the foresight to clamp his legs together to prevent that from happening. He's probably going to have a bruise where it connected with his thigh, but whatever.

"Oh my god," Travis says, hitting the spacebar so the recording stops mid-word, "you're a fucking disaster," and Elijah has certainly heard Travis be mean before—to him, even!—but right now he mostly sounds tired and kind of fond, shaking his head as he plucks the empty glass out of Elijah's lap. "How much did you actually have to drink tonight?"

"Not that much," Elijah mutters, which is true. He's just a lightweight. He squirms a little, grimacing. God, he can't work like this, in wet jeans and underwear.

"Here," Travis says, pushing back in his chair and pulling Elijah up by the elbow. "I have sweatpants you can borrow."

Elijah ignores the way his stomach flips and gives Travis a look. "Listen," Travis says, rolling his eyes. "When you have a boss like Lovett..."

Elijah laughs again. "Right, right. Say no more."

It still feels weird how big the offices are; the newness of the space hasn't worn off yet. Is there a word for the opposite of claustrophobia? That's how it feels here now some days, watching the dogs run around with balls in their mouths, having to actually cross a considerable distance to go talk to Jon about some initiative they're working on. They'd all gotten so used to living out of each other's pockets in the old place that having so much room and more than one bathroom is deeply strange.

Travis actually has his own desk now. Strange, strange. He digs a pair of sweatpants out of his bottom drawer and hands them over. "You remember how to get to the restrooms, right?" he says, grinning. "Don't need me to hold your hand through this?"

"Fuck off," Elijah says automatically, and then, before he can stop himself: "Am I supposed to just freeball it, though?"

Travis's eyebrows rise. "Sorry, dude," he says, tongue flicking out to wet his lower lip. "Lovett and I share many things, but that list has not expanded to include underwear, so I don't have a spare pair."

"Right," Elijah repeats. "Of course." He scurries away to change before he can say anything else wildly inappropriate.

The bathroom is dark when he ducks inside, and he flicks the light on so he can strip without bashing his knees against anything. Travis's sweatpants are soft, and they're a little big for him, so he has to do the drawstring up around his waist so they won't slide down too much.

Travis is dicking around on his phone when Elijah strolls back out with his damp clothes clutched in one hand. "Ready," he says, jerking his head across the office, toward his desk and his laptop and the rest of the work they have to do before they can go home for the night.

"Cool," Travis says, expression unreadable, and follows him back over.

They manage to get through editing the rest of both episodes without any unfortunate accidents. There's plenty more laughing, though; Lovett's a pretty funny guy, good sense of comedic timing, and Travis writes him good material. It's nearly two when Elijah finishes clipping the end of the last theme song.

He leans back, rubbing the bridge of his nose, neck lolling against—Travis's arm, which has apparently been resting against his swivel chair for a while. "Ugh," Elijah says, trying not to freeze up too much. "Fuck, that took way longer than necessary."

"Yeah, no thanks to you," Travis says, chuckling too close to his ear. "Next time I'm definitely cutting you off."

Elijah huffs, shifting for a more comfortable position and letting his eyes slide shut. "What if I just fell asleep here? It's nice. The AC is way better than it is at my apartment, and there's a significantly lower chance of walking in my roommate hooking up."

"Come on, man," Travis says. He sounds amused. A couple fingers poke at Elijah's armpit, not hard enough to tickle, but almost. "At least give my arm back."

"Nah. It's a nice pillow."

The only warning he gets for what happens next is the scrape of Travis's chair against the floor, and then there are fingers digging into Elijah's ribs, what the _fuck_. He squeaks loudly, eyes flying open, and tries to squirm away.

For one disorienting moment, the ceiling seems to slide in a spiral, and then Elijah's flat on his back on the floor of the office, Travis hovering over him with a shit-eating grin on his face, bony knees tucked around Elijah's hips. "I—wh—I'm gonna report you for sexual harassment," Elijah splutters, trying to twist out from underneath him.

Travis laughs. "Are you?" He runs his hand up Elijah's side, watches Elijah shiver and go still.

If Travis sat back a little, he'd definitely be able to feel the mortifying half-chub forming in Elijah's—fuck, in the sweatpants he borrowed from Travis. Christ. That's definitely not appropriate. "Look," Elijah says. "You got your arm back, so can we just... you know. Call it a night?"

Travis narrows his eyes, studying him. "Is that what you want?" he asks, leaning forward, close enough that Elijah can feel Travis's breath against his cheek.

When Elijah's envisioned this—and he has, a few times, given into that particular fantasy during moments of weakness, after drinking too much—he's usually imagined it happening on tour, in a hotel room while on the road, or sometimes, when he's feeling particularly antsy, backstage after a show, frantic handjobs coming off the adrenaline high. They haven't been at this office long enough for Elijah to think about fucking on one of the couches or against the big glass windows or on top of the new sturdy table in the studio, but he sure is thinking about it now, hips twitching helplessly. The concrete feels cold against his back.

Elijah brings his hands up, fingers plucking at the front of Travis's thin shirt. Go big or go home, right? "No," he says, voice cracking, and tilts his chin up to kiss him.

Travis makes a soft noise of surprise, mouth slack, like he wasn't sure Elijah was going to follow through, which—yeah, alright, that's fair. He's here now, though, they're getting into it, and it would be great if Travis got with the program. Elijah tugs him in, hands twisting in the material of Travis's shirt, and it seems to jolt Travis out of whatever was running through his mind, because he exhales through his nose and presses closer, heavy against Elijah's torso, the swell of his ass rocking down against Elijah's lap.

Travis kisses hard and wet, tongue sliding past Elijah's teeth. Elijah bucks up, hips hitching, and gasps when Travis slides back to settle on top of Elijah's knees, when he reaches down to tug the knot out of the drawstring and then pulls Elijah's dick out over the waistband of his sweatpants. "Pretty," Travis says, raspy, and spits in his palm without ceremony or pretense, eyes wide with intent.

Elijah's heart rate skyrockets in the two seconds it takes for Travis to wrap his hand around his erection and tug up toward the head, thumb rubbing along the vein. "Fuck," he says, head knocking back against the floor. If he'd known he was about to be jerked off by his hot coworker on the floor of the office, he would've pulled a damn pillow off one of the couches. Too late now; Travis doesn't seem to be very interested in letting Elijah up. "Trav—ah, shit!" Elijah picks his heavy head up to see Travis bent over, his mouth hot and warm around the tip of Elijah's dick, hand gently squeezing the base. "This escalated—quickly, Jesus."

Travis pulls off with a slick pop. "Are you complaining?"

"No," Elijah says hastily, swallowing around the tightness in his throat. "No, I just—you can, uh. Take your time, if you don't want me to pop off that fast."

"Duly noted," Travis says, dry, and ducks down again to tongue at the slit of Elijah's dick. Elijah grits his teeth and closes his hands around Travis's shoulders, neck tense, entire body braced against the prospect of coming too soon.

Travis's eyes flick up as he sinks down a little more, gaze roaming over Elijah's face, cataloguing the rapid pace of his breath and the flush crawling up his neck. It seems unfair that Travis seems so calm and unfussed when Elijah's about ten seconds away from losing it in their shared place of work, toes curling in his sneakers. Travis's hair still looks perfect, whatever gel he uses holding it in place, and Elijah's palms itch to mess it up, but he's not sure if he's allowed to, which is kind of absurd. Travis has Elijah's dick in his mouth, for God's sake. They're well past any of these arbitrary lines.

Elijah slides his hands up Travis's neck and twines his fingers in Travis's hair, watches Travis's eyes flash when Elijah tightens his grip and tugs. Travis doesn't pull off; his eyes do narrow, though, and he hollows his cheeks, sucks harder as he swallows around more of Elijah's dick. "Oh, shit," Elijah says. His hips automatically try to fuck up into the wet heat of Travis's mouth, but Travis has his legs pinned down pretty well—well enough to lean in heavy and keep Elijah mostly still.

Travis is going slower than he was before, hand clenched loosely around the base of Elijah's dick, tongue sliding hot and firm up the shaft, but Elijah still isn't going to last, not when Travis's nose bumps against his navel and he chokes a little trying to swallow again. Elijah curls a trembling hand around the back of Travis's neck, groans when Travis pulls up with an obscene slurp and then settles down, throat looser. His lips are so fucking pink.

"Travis," Elijah says, abdomen tensing as he rises into a half-crunch, smoothing Travis's hair back against his scalp. "Fuck, Travis, I can't—I'm gonna—"

Travis hums, the corner of his mouth twitching as he gives Elijah's dick another long, tight suck, drags a guttural noise out of Elijah's chest as he curls in tight, Travis's face cradled in his hands, and comes so hard the edges of his vision white out.

When he comes back down from it, Travis has rolled off him. He's sitting up against Elijah's desk, one knee up and the other leg spread out, coughing a little and wiping his mouth. "Shit," he says, voice gone rough and hollow, face kind of flushed from exertion. Finally. "It's been a while. I forgot what swallowing was like."

 _You didn't have to_ , Elijah thinks, but he just says, "Yeah," like an idiot, instead. Travis's mouth rises into a smirk, the kind that always precedes some sort of cutting commentary or a joke at someone else's expense, and Elijah—fuck, he'd really just like to avoid that for a little longer. He sits up fast enough to make his head spin, tucks himself away, and slides forward to kneel in front of Travis, reaches down to cup him through his jeans.

"Oh," Travis says, inhaling sharply. His brow furrows a little. He's pretty hard, which is gratifying, and he lets out a little hiccup of breath when Elijah squeezes the line of his dick. He doesn't stop Elijah when he undoes Travis's button and pulls the zipper down, works Travis out through the fly of his underwear.

"Haven't made the switch yet, huh," Elijah says, huffing when Travis sends him a nonplussed look. "No wonder Lovett isn't asking you to bring spare underwear to the office."

"Oh my god," Travis says, dragging a hand down his face and laughing into his palm. "Can we not talk about our boss while your hand is on my dick?"

Elijah laughs too. "I'm just saying. Horizontal quick-draw fly. Those Tommy John folks, they're really onto something."

"Stop, I'm getting soft," Travis protests. That's definitely not true, but Elijah's willing to let it slide.

He licks his palm and reaches back down. _Travis is thick everywhere_ , Elijah thinks, blinking as he starts jerking him off slowly, and he's idly considering trying to fit all of him in his mouth when Travis curls his arm around Elijah's shoulders and leans forward to kiss him again. Elijah can still taste himself on Travis's tongue, which is hotter than it has any right to be. He sighs into it, fingers squeezing tight enough around Travis's dick to make him groan and jerk in Elijah's grip.

Elijah wouldn't have pegged Travis as a kisser, necessarily—all the times he's imagined this, he hasn't thought about making out that much—but it's a nice development that he is. Elijah likes the scratchy feeling of Travis's beard against his chin, likes the way his tongue slides inside Elijah's mouth, firm and proprietary. Travis tastes faintly of spearmint, or whatever flavor gum it is that he likes to chew and pop, loudly, whenever they're in meetings. Elijah likes it. He likes how Travis reaches up to grab his forearm, digs his fingers into Elijah's skin and bites down on Elijah's lip when he's getting close, breathing labored, eyelashes fluttering.

"Elijah," he says, the syllables slurred against Elijah's mouth. "You—"

Elijah says, "Yeah, come on, do it," and Travis shivers and spills all over Elijah's knuckles. Some of it spurts out onto his boxers and his jeans, too, and Elijah shakes his head. "You don't happen to have another spare set of sweatpants lying around, do you?" he murmurs, and Travis tilts his head back against Elijah's desk and laughs, throat bobbing. Elijah ignores the low kick in his gut and reaches up to grab the box of tissues, wipes his hand off and tries to scrub Travis's pants as best he can.

"'s fine," Travis says, grabbing Elijah's wrist, thumb brushing against his pulse point. He exhales, long and loud. "We should be going home anyway, right?"

"Right," Elijah says. He clambers to his feet, extends his hand to give Travis some help up after he tucks himself in, zips his jeans.

Travis studies him for a minute, the pink in his face starting to recede already, and then leans in to kiss Elijah one more time, slow and filthy and hot. It's hard to breathe when he pulls back, which Elijah assumes was the goal, because Travis is grinning like an idiot. "Don't be gross, wash my sweatpants before you return them. See you Monday."

"Yeah," Elijah says dumbly. "Monday." What a fucking way to christen the new office.

 

 

Elijah rolls over late on Saturday morning to about fifty texts and Slack messages from Lovett, because—fuck. Because they'd finished editing both episodes like stellar employees, and then had foolishly forgot to schedule today's to post at five in the morning. Of course.

He scrambles to pull his laptop out of his bag, posts the episode manually and shoots off an apology text before navigating to his message chain with Travis. Elijah waffles a bit on the wording, but ends up sending: _thanks for being SUCH a distraction last night_. Then he rolls out of bed to go take a shower and rinse the terrible taste out of his mouth. 

There's a reply waiting for him when he gets out again. _i'll make sure to distract you_ after _we post next time_ , Travis has sent, with a little winky emoji. Elijah snorts and shakes his head.

 _i'll hold you to that_ , he says, and then shuffles into the kitchen to look for breakfast. He's looking forward to it already.


End file.
